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Sylvia let out a snort at the idea. “I am many things, my friend. But a nymph is not one of them.”
“Perhaps a sorceress, then. What about Circe, who turned Odysseus’s men into swine?”
“That’s more like it.” They shared a laugh. “No. I’ll be fine here,” Sylvia insisted. “I have some more work to do anyway. But I want to hear every detail tomorrow.”
Georgiana smoothed her hands down the front of her tunic. “I’m sure it will be like every other party.” Sadness flashed in her eyes so quickly Sylvia nearly missed it.
She pressed her lips together, resisting the urge to do a little prodding. She was certainly in no position to ask for honesty, when she herself was sitting on a mountain of her own secrets. She glanced at the clock on the mantel. Guests from neighboring estates would be arriving within the hour. Sylvia should have no trouble slipping away in the ensuing crush to deliver the envelope. She had traveled the route just this afternoon (this time without any interruptions from Rafe) and found a nondescript metal box nestled at the base of a tree in the exact location mentioned in the letter, near what appeared to be an abandoned cottage. It should be an easy marker for her to find in the coming dark. Coincidentally, she had run into Brodie again on her way back to the castle. He explained that the structure was once the gamekeeper’s cottage, but it hadn’t been used in years.
Sylvia still didn’t like the idea of walking the path at night and couldn’t forget the gardener’s warning from yesterday:
All kinds of creatures could be roaming these woods, man and beast alike.
Georgiana’s usual look of serene cheerfulness had returned. “I think this goddess is ready to enter the fray.”
Sylvia gave her a soft smile as she slipped her hand into her dress pocket to stroke the cool metal of Brodie’s pocketknife. She, too, was prepared for whatever trials lay ahead.
A short while later, Georgiana and Mrs. Crawford, dressed as a regal Maria Theresa, left the suite. A steady parade of carriages had been making their way up the long drive for some minutes, and the sounds of guests arriving had begun to filter upstairs. Sylvia then wished Bea good night and retired to her room. Bea intended to nap in preparation for her mistress’s late return, and Sylvia wasted no time taking advantage. She scurried into her room, closed the door, and opened her trunk. She had a costume of her own to don.
***
“I look bloody ridiculous,” Rafe grumbled as he adjusted the lace cuffs at the sleeves of his blue velvet frock coat.
Tully didn’t even try to hide his irritation. “Then we should have brought something from London.”
“I didn’t know I was going to need a damned costume.” Gerard had left that bit out. Now Rafe was stuck in the best outfit Tully had managed to scrounge up on short notice. All in all, it was a fine effort, but Rafe was less than pleased by the subject. “Must I wear the hatandthe wig?”
“Yes. Otherwise you’ll look like a pirate. And I’m told there will already be several pirates in attendance.”
“Well, heaven knows we can’t have that,” Rafe said as he snatched the ridiculous black wig from his valet’s hands. The blasted thing barely fit over his hair. Tully then fussed with the curls and fluffed it until Rafe finally had to brush him away.
“Now the mustache.”
“No.That is where I draw the line.” Tully didn’t say a word. He merely raised one dark brow. After a tense moment, Rafe heaved a sigh. “Fine. But hurry up, dammit.”
Pure glee filled Tully’s eyes as he moved to apply the glue and false whiskers. When he was finished, he stepped back and made a great show of ushering Rafe over to the mirror. “Behold: King Charles the second.”
A very flamboyant pirate stared back at Rafe, but he held his tongue for Tully’s sake. The man had never looked so proud in his life. “Beautiful job, Tully.”
His valet’s face immediately fell. “You hate it.”
Rafe considered his reflection. Between the wig and the mustache, he didn’t look like himself at all, which could have its benefits. He had never employed disguises in his work and suspected that they could prove very useful. “I don’t. Truly. I won’t be wearing it to the theater, mind you, but your resourcefulness is unparalleled.”
Even Tully wasn’t immune to flattery. He blushed a little and bowed. “Thank you, sir. I hope you enjoy yourself.”
There was little chance of that happening, but he graciously accepted the sentiment anyway.
Rafe straightened the sizable brim of his hat and made his way downstairs into the scrum below. Wardale was greeting guests dressed as the emperor Caesar, while Lady Delacorte had taken the bold step of dressing as Calpurnia, Caesar’s last wife. Rafe couldn’t help scanning the crowd, hoping that perhaps Sylvia had changed her mind and decided to attend.
An image of her dressed in a much more revealing tunic lounging on a chaise holding a succulent grapevine at the ready suddenly flashed in his mind. Thanks to his continued search and her duties, they had only been able to exchange a few heated and brief words since yesterday afternoon, but she had rarely left his thoughts. Rafe had to fight through the impulse to turn around and march right back up the staircase in search of her. Then again, perhaps it was better that she didn’t see him dressed like this. Tonight Rafe planned to engage in a little light subterfuge with some of the guests, as the convivial atmosphere of a fancy dress ball tended to loosen peoples’ tongues, not to mention the copious amounts of spirits. Wardale had been particularly adamant that Rafe target Lord Essex over a rumor he had a penchant for women’s underthings. Rafe didn’t see what that had to do with the threats Wardale had been receiving, but the man insisted that such a deviant couldn’t be trusted. Rafe privately decided to clear Lord Essex of any suspicion. It was no concern of his if the man enjoyed wearing women’s stockings, and certainly not Wardale’s.
Rafe had just located the gentleman in question when someone accidentally jostled his elbow.
“Oh, pardon me. Terribly sorry.”
Rafe sketched a grand bow. “Lady Arlington, good evening.” He then took in her costume. “Or should I say, the goddess of war?”
Lady Arlington squinted at him for a long moment. Either she had already sampled the punch, or she simply didn’t recognize him. “It is Mr. Davies,” he finally said.
